


Willis in Wonderland

by MelodiousPoison



Category: American McGee's Alice, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Blood and Gore, Dark, Dogs, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Murder, Other, Victorian, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-04-20 16:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14265129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodiousPoison/pseuds/MelodiousPoison
Summary: 'There is no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then'- Alice in Wonderland





	1. Where is home?

Effervescent sliding light swings along in the darkness, steady as a metronome, it constantly moves left to right ceaselessly before it disappears with finality. It is quickly replaced to clocks, of different sizes and sounds but the familiar ticking in tune, steady as a heartbeat. Before they become molten, oozing into puddles and the numbers fall apart into meaninglessness. The arrows are flying around with keys that flutter past his mind’s vision. 

 

In the real world, his body shifts uncomfortably on the lounger, his brow furrowed as he stares blankly at Dr Hannibal Lecter before collapsing into a dazed then dozed off-heap on the doctor’s sofa. Hannibal’s hand strays on the edge of his own seat, body poised to move if dear Willis needed him. Instead, he attempts to soothe with his voice alone, hoping it would reach him through this episode; “Come now Will, it’s only a dream.”

 

Willis responds immediately, his voice already distant and sleep-ridden; “It’s not a dream…It’s a memory…It makes me sick.”

 

The last few words are rife with self-disgust, his voice quietening almost as if he sinks deeper into the world created by his wonderful imagination. Hannibal couldn’t help but let his observation be voiced out loud;“Associations come quickly.”

 

“I build forts,” Willis retorts, his voice weakly strains against the current of his internal state, eyes scrunching further as if afraid of what he would see if he opened them. Forts can be knocked down, Hannibal wryly thinks to himself. 

 

Meanwhile, Willis is enmeshed in the mental landscape of his mind. He was now in a raft, travelling in a familiar place and water meant safety and comfort as it continues to lazily push him and his raft-mate along. The Mad Hatter looks agitatedly at him, eyes never raising above the scowl that painted his features. Mad hatter indeed bemuses to himself. The stare only lessens when it is shifted towards a silver flask the Mad Hatter reveals. He doesn’t speak to Willis, instead, he just pushes it towards his direction. Willis takes the proffered flask and takes a swig, the familiar nostalgic rich burn easing the pressure that beat erratically inside him. Only after does he raise gaze and stares at the sky that bleeds red, casting an unearthly cast on their skin. He felt a stretching feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that it didn’t feel quite right. 

 

Hannibal stands, fascinated by the turn of events. Willis never had an episode directly in his presence before. He allows himself to draw slowly nearer to the vulnerable man; “Now, focus and try to relax. You’re floating again, weightless, a cypher.”

 

Willis’s body revolts defensively with suddenness, he curls up on the lounger, turning away from the patient older man. As if in response, the world grows tumultuous, a stream becoming a storm-ridden ocean, rain pouring but it was not water. No, it was blood dripping down his face, down his skin, onto the raft. He smelt it then, smelt the tang of the smell of his mom’s cooking, the taste of human flesh upon his tongue. 

 

“Tasteless,” he mutters more to himself. All too used to what happens inside his dreams but powerless to change it. Instead, he folds his arms and tries to bury his face in his now folded arms.

 

Hannibal was enchanted by what he was seeing, murmuring to himself his thoughts aloud; “Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.”

 

When he dares to raise his head upwards once more, the mad hatter had been replaced instead with his friend the rabbit. Her dark hair was matted with the same fluid he had on himself, but it was her eyes, alight with the familiar spark of mischief that made him know it was her, truly her. He felt himself tremble with relief but that was before she begins to twitch violently. Her mouth pulls down in an exaggerated grimace before quickly being jerked into a nightmarish smile. He reaches out to touch her, to make sure she wasn’t being harmed and instead her eyes pop out like a broken toy, and in a playful tease she taunts him;“It’s Will, right? Is something wrong? Ratherrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

 

She falls backwards off the raft, down into the waiting blood red of the depths below. He dreads what lays down there, but he must save her. He will not lose anyone else, even if the price is his own head. Willis stands and plunges off the raft and is immediately pulled by hands ripping into him, tearing skin, the sinew off his bones, finally removing his eyes before all he could see is black.

 

“Pollution. Corruption. It’s killing me. Wonderland is destroyed. My mind is in ruins,” each word he enunciates in dread, voice growing quieter even when each word becomes more desperate than the last. It takes moments before he opens his eyes once more, sweat-ridden but alive to the real world once more. The moment he does he only sees Doctor Lecter, a towel and a glass of water in his hands waiting for him; “Welcome back Will.”

 

He had denied the doctors offer to lend him some clothes, feeling distinctly uncomfortable by how unprofessional they have been. Falling asleep on Dr Lecter’s couch, having one of his dreams. That was enough for him to want to turn around and drown it in some well-earned self-pity. Only politeness made him stay, and maybe deep down, he didn’t want Dr Lecter to think of him only as an infirm, broken thing. So, he remains, his eyes never straying close to looking at the other, hoping it would be enough to show he could be more than what he had shown already.

 

“No thank you, Dr Lecter, what you’re already doing is…” He trails off. He wasn’t sure how he could convey both gratitude, discomfiture, a desire to be angry yet delighted. So instead he falls into silence, taking the moment to fulfil a need to place distance between him and the doctor. Trailing his fingers across the book's spine with almost reverence, he takes one off the shelf, flipping it to a random page. Hannibal carefully leans over and begins to carefully fold the towel that had been left behind before placing it back. Lifting himself upwards he moves, his arms loosely held by his side as he moves from beyond the chairs. 

 

“How do you feel?” Hannibal questions Willis, the distance already much smaller than what it had been before. This felt more familiar to Willis with its established line, him rejecting the doctor’s prodding but with good spirits. His fingers trail down the page, eyes glued to his own hand’s movement before he jokingly mocks Hannibal; “Really Dr Lecter? Couldn’t think of anything else to ask?”

 

“I distinctly recall you asking to not be psychoanalysed. So, I’m asking. As a friend.”

 

Will breathes angrily through his nose as a knee-jerk response but with a sharp exhale he admits to the other; “My head’s broken and there’s a steam hammer in my chest.”

 

He had already been forcibly incarcerated into the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for months before he was finally released. But Hannibal. Hannibal felt different as if he almost liked him for his overactive imagination and didn’t treat him as broken for it. His brokenness was real, but it was nice to pretend it wasn’t, at least for a while. He turns sideward, and looks at Hannibal’s shoulder, no longer pretending he was staring at the book. Hannibal inhales in Willis, finally reaching a still far but almost close distance from him. In an act of nonchalance leans back onto one of his chairs before questioning; “You’re not fond of eye contact, are you?”

 

It was something small, a distraction but one thing Willis liked nothing more was to have something to sink his anger into that wasn’t entirely self-directed;“Eyes are distracting you see too much, you don’t see enough. And-And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, um, oh, those whites are really white, or, he must have hepatitis, or, oh, is that a burst vein? So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

 

Their eyes met when Willis realises his mistake. Too much, he scolds himself, immediately lowering his eyes back down to the random page. Hannibal stands once more and closes the final distance between the two. He doesn’t touch Willis but instead looks at him with a fraction of a smile hidden on his face;“You and I are a lot alike Will.”

 

Will couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escapes from his lips. Nice of the good doctor to think that but no one could ever be like him;  
“Don’t psychoanalyse me more Dr Lecter. You won’t like what you find.”

 

And realise how wrong you are, Willis continues cruelly inside his mind. Hannibal’s expression becomes even more open and warm at the accusation. He steps forward just within the boundaries of making Willis feel an uneasy edge on the column of his spine. Hannibal takes the end of the book, the page pushed down by his grip. Their hands become indirectly connected from their fingers sharing the same page space and Willis feels torn between moving forwards and claiming the book from the doctor or relenting and allowing him to take it. They remain in a standstill and Willis feels pushed into further inner mutiny into regard to the doctor. Before the line of thought could go further the doctor interrupts it vocally; “I apologise for my forwardness Will, but may I ask a favour?”

 

Willis’s eyes close only for a moment before he tilts his head upwards, gulping awkwardly before a raspy; “Yes?”

“Call me Hannibal.”

 

He never felt more grateful for the interruption when he recognises Franklyn’s voice with its petulant, whiny tone, another of Dr- no, Hannibal’s clients who also knocked on the door with urgency; “Dr Lecter! I’m here!” 

 

Willis immediately feels a sense of escape approaching him and before Hannibal could tell him otherwise, he uttered, “I should go.”

 

He releases the book they both held and retreats towards the now open door. Hannibal watches him leave, his face returning to practised neutrality while he whispers to himself; “I’ll set you free Will.”

 

Will closes the door behind him gently, the small distance managing to make his heart thrum with the same hammering motion it had before. He begins walking slowly, prolonging the inevitable as he opens the door to reality.  
It was dreary, the world clogged in hazes of greys and browns, his eyes lowered to the cobblestones beneath his feet. Music, twists and turns within his hearing but all he does is continue forward, his feet light enough to ensure no one can brush past him. That is until the strains of music were impossible to ignore, and his eyes see the sleek shine of a newly polished violin held by practised hands; “You like Boccherini sir? How about Paganini?”

 

The words were kind, but the tone was predatory, instincts screaming at Willis to flee. Instead, he offers a small nod of affirmation and a thank you, a shiny coin flutters to the cap near the other’s feet. 

 

He continues, mulling over his current living situation. He could return, admit his imminent homelessness and lose any chance of having an equal footing with the doctor. Or he could go to the Chief Inspector, placing himself in the mercy of a law he was sure will he will be executed with. He decides to do neither, instead aimlessly drifting whether his subconscious took him. Until he sees light. Light in the form of a panting dog in the distance, fur soft and warm, far beyond the coldness that otherwise surrounded them. It turns towards a darkened road, a soft golden glow even in the ominous distance. Even with the sounds of women selling their wares in the form of their bodies, or the men who lecherously looked on, it all drowned out to singular silence as he looks upwards at the sight of the leaving canine. Will only allows himself a single sigh before he determinedly places his hands in his pocket and feeling the circular warm metal within his hand, he strides forward.

 

Will chuckles to himself, when he draws closer to the dog ahead of him, now able to see the fluffy tail that trailed behind it; “Seems following creatures into dark holes has become a habit.” They both turn the corner, only the sounds of soft panting and Will’s footsteps can be heard before they come to a complete stop. “I hope this doesn’t turn into a vice,” he uttered before he finally sees the eyes of the dog. One was a ghostly orb and the other threatened to suck him in with its darkness, most would claim demon for this trait alone and he felt almost kinship with the beast for that reason alone. Yet above it all, as Will takes hesitant steps forward before he offers his hand to the dog to sniff, was the sense of familiarity that they knew each other.

###  Wonderland: Willis 

Will whistles cheerfully as dogs erupt and pile out of the doors, each competing to bowl over the young man. His grin was wide, eyes glittering with happiness as his little sister shyly follows behind the rowdy pack, dear Alice dressed in her usual forget-me-not blue, and she stood at the stairs with a smile on her face. He allows himself to be toppled over, which causes the little girl to flutter around him and admonish her older brother; “Willis!! Mother is going to be so mad!”

 

Willis suddenly takes his little sister into his arms, she, shrieking with delight as he tickles her mercilessly; “Would you say,” he stops and pauses dramatically; “she would be as mad as a hatter?”

 

Alice shakes her head, eyes wide with innocence. Willis takes his cue to resume their bout in the front lawn, much to the chagrined delight of their nurse. They continue on, even when both their eyes shed tears of delight in each other’s company, their clothes are muddied, and their faces are sore from smiling. The dogs swarmed them, barking and yipping joyfully along with their masters, bliss in the smallest of forms.

 

Even when Willis was fast approaching adulthood, shrieking and chasing till they were dirty and hungry was life, glorious life. Come dinnertime, their mother would pretend to be angry, just like the red queen in their stories but then would send them to their rooms with a soft kiss on their dirty brow. Meanwhile, their father delighted in their rowdiness, asking them to share their tales when they return to the table, Alice more than happy to oblige. In the meanwhile, the dogs dutifully sat in a row, though Buster would be found with a scrap or two by a meal’s end. They were happy, it was home after all.

###  Wonderland End 

“Willis Jacob Hobbs, are you listening to me!?”

 

Willis immediately wakes from his reverie, skin clammy with moisture, the muggy air of day replaced with the sharp crispness of night. He immediately recognised the booming voice, his shoulders quivering as he turns. The dog was gone but the Chief Inspector replaced him, glaring with his body firmly poised in aggression.

 

Willis forces himself to come closer to the other man, hand caressing along the front of the watch. The outline of the stag his father etched upon it still remained even when time and his hands wore it down. For his part the detective hunched their shoulders over to look less imposing with their size difference, but it mattered little. Willis felt the force of his distrust from his posture and the way he leans away, right down to his brow that spasms erratically beneath his hat. Even without physical cues, he couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be near him, Jack knowing what he did.

 

“Come with me,” Detective Crawford commands, and Will feels a pulling sensation move across him as if he were physically touched by him. Despite this, he still felt the sense he should refuse, he wasn’t a servant or kept pet even if the Chief inspector wished he was; “Detective Crawford, it really wouldn’t be a good idea. Our last visit cost me several pounds to my head and it got us nowhere.”

 

Willis wonders if this would be the thing that forces the man to finally strike him and he could feel righteous finally if only for a moment. Instead, the inspector hails a carriage and like an invisible noose gripped around his neck, he follows Jack closely behind as if he were dragged along the concrete. Upon entering, they sit across from each other in the carriage, the stagnant warm air only causing the atmosphere to stifle more, each trying to avoid the other even in such forced intimacy.

###  Madness Returns: Jack 

You don’t know Willis like I do. 

 

His father had gone insane, first slitting his own wife’s throat with a blade, akin treating her like one of the beasts he hunted in the spring. Before she could have fallen completely, he took her into his arms once more and ripped a chunk of her neck with his teeth. Then he dragged her, ichor dripping messily down the wooden floors. Provenance would have Willis Jacob Hobbs seeing his dying mother be shoved towards him through the opening door before it was slammed closed once more. Maid Witless was nearby hanging linens for the household. She came running to the calls of his young master who demanded he go find others to help before he entered.

 

You could almost say he was brave, driven by a desire to stop this madness, maybe he just wanted to save her. Willis’s little sister, the darling of the house, Abigail ‘Alice’ Hobbs; “Fair as a rose in bloom and as flighty as a butterfly” the maid mournfully says soon after as her casket would be lowered. 

 

Alice who ran from her father who sang songs he would use to tuck her into bed at night. He grips the already drying knife, stalking her like she was merely meat, never far behind, cornering her. He had trapped her in his arms in an embrace in the kitchen, his teeth in a crooked smile, caked with their mother’s blood. 

 

What happened next bore all destruction of the devil. His father had sliced his daughter, Willis’s screaming came to no avail. Her blood sprayed across him like raindrops across his skin. Then it was over, his father stabbed repeatedly as if to stave the nightmare away.

Even when he is pulled outside, his sister’s cooled body cradled in his arms removed from him, he is fraught yet frozen, an effigy to the destruction. Willis knew, he made leaps beyond normal comprehension. He recounted everything that happened right down to a partially burnt letter that only contained ‘they know’ before its viciously ripped into pieces. 

 

However, he was not guiltless not in his own eyes as his body trembles yet his voice as sure and steady as an executioner’s axe whispered to himself punctuated with shaky breaths in between; “He loved us, he wanted to consume us. He needed to keep some part of us inside him forever.” 

 

No one else hears but I did. Willis had a knack for the monsters, maybe he even was one himself but not today. Today we saw him as a lost hero. 

 

He withdrew completely as he stares at the chaos erupting him, even when the quiet follows he remained lifeless. He was incarcerated soon after, the withdrawal only the first step to a mental fracture that would take years to heal. Dr Chilton deemed him a worthy cause and had provided for his care until he was released.

 

My instincts told me he would help us catch killers sooner. It was only right a monster could find another.

###  Madness Returns End 

The carriage ride ends, and Willis distinctly recalls the area as a poorer part of the city. They had been transferred when news had circulated that Detective Crawford had a former patient and lackey, capable of divining a murderer. His eyes are drawn to the wondering rabble, it appeared to be a public affair for the city today. The police inspector puts his formidable presence to good use, parting the crowd, with Willis following closely behind.

 

It was only when he reaches the true sight of their morbid curiosity, Willis feels shock reverberating through him. A stag stands possessively over the mounted corpse, looking directly at Willis as if challenging him. It was not like the others; its usual pelt was instead dark feathers adorning it as some tableaux of a beautiful death. Before he continues this line of thought he feels himself sinking into the ground, a light in the familiar shade of forget-me-nots erupting from beneath. 

 

When he is fully submerged, only then he begins to freefall beside the images of molten timepieces and floating keys.


	2. Vale of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all, freedom came when the mind was unshackled – isn’t that what Dr Lecter had told him once?

The clocks flow molten over his skin as he spins bodily down the rabbit hole, its roots beyond reach among the flock of cards fluttering by. There was nothing else to grip onto that would slow his descent, pieces of time and door locks flying past, his eyes unable to keep up with the vicious pace the fall set. For the liquid itself, it seemed to deaccelerate just for him, a mix of white and steel dripping in a viscous stream down his body and his face, burying him.  Where he should have been scorched alive from the fluid, he remains alive, arms lifted wide in a free fall downwards as he no longer spins.

 

Only when the end of the tunnel appears to draw near to its end does he frantically turn his head, eyes drawn to teacups and imagined shadows having a party until darkened roots make way to the blue skies. With the gentle blues of the open sky, he is transformed. His clothes were no longer rough-hewn and stark, stripes and holes the ornaments of his poverty. He feels the fabric of the coat that now adorns him, a contradiction of cool yet warm as it matches the colour of his eyes. The continued drop stops him from his holding his arms close to his chest.

 

His heart thunders inside him as he draws closer to the rock edge, or should he miss it? He couldn’t see the end of the latter option, clouds obscuring how long and painful it would be if he continued to plummet to the end. Before his mind could allow him to realise such a fate, a cascade of butterflies’ flutter toward him. Their soft wings beat around him, gently guiding him to the waiting cliff before his feet feel the firm ground beneath. He allows himself one shuddered breath before he thrusts his hands determinedly to his sides, scanning the terrain that surrounds him.

 

His boots crunch reassuringly on stray rocks as he covers the top of his brow with his straightened hand. He sees, and he takes it in, never straying from the sight that leaves a lump in his throat. It felt like nothing had changed, from the way the sky seemed to drift endlessly outwards, to the way his mind, springs out the loop of events last time he felt physically man-

* * *

 

 

“Look at what the Mad Hatter dragged in,” the voice was lowly, seductive and all the while retaining the edges of refined ferality.

 

Willis sees only darkness for a brief moment, predatory eyes crawling, from the bottom of his feet, up his spine, until he felt the weight of the stare on his closed ones. The stag slows down, having reached the top of his head. That is when Will responds wearily;

“Why are you here?”

_Why are you always there, always watching me you –_

“We are alike you and I. Predators circling each other, waiting for the other to strike.”

 

The Cheshire Stag moves closer to Will, who quickly shifts around, his body tensing at his recklessness as he watches the andromorphic man in front of him;

“I’m not in the mood for your riddles, _stag_.”

He feels the rumble of the other inside his chest – where it penetrated through the barriers of his skin to have the thrum ricochet his pulse to the stag’s own.

“Ah, but is that not purrfect? Confusion fuelling possibilities - all to become fearful for your own morality, for your own…sanity.”

“Trying to _weasel_ your way into my head will not work –“

Willis forces himself forward, away from the edge, both metaphorically and otherwise;

“- Not this time.”

* * *

 

 

Willis wasn’t surprised when light became mere glimmers beneath leaves. He walks through the shallows of a creek and distantly hears it fall down off the edge, his feet moving constantly, almost senselessly, to reach the other. The stag smiles widely, its teeth sharp and caked with specks of red and Willis couldn’t deny the truth passing through his lips;

“I was hoping to stay away from this.”

 

Maybe it was impossible to escape the genetic fate that his father created when he murdered their family. It seemed impossible but the already voluminous grin only seemed to widen in response;

“Abandon that hope! A new law reigns and you must be strong.”

It was blunt from a creature that enjoyed carving puzzles with words and pauses and the Stag, forever able to crawl through his mind it seemed sensed his reluctance to be near him;

“We were friends once and you know I’m always helpful.”

And Willis couldn’t wish more that it weren’t so true.

* * *

 

 

He had forgotten. In the malaise of loss and childhood memories made distant, he had lost how it felt to feel the sun upon his skin, to feel a breeze that didn’t come with cough-inducing smog, to be alone or as alone as one could be in the company of a being that enjoyed playing mind games. The presence of the stag just outside the periphery of his vision made him snort in derision while he continued along the path designed just for him.

 

 

He watches the water flow from a statue, that looks like _her,_ right down to how it seemed to have tears gliding down just like how she appeared when she cried. He couldn’t help the sorrowful clench that dear Alice would have been right beside him, should have been. To see the splendour of flowers that bloomed prettily and how she would be at the edges while he and their father would be fishing in the water that flowed below. If this were real and not a nightmare.

 

 

This was Wonderland, his Wonderland, where even in its beauty, it was not safe like the mushrooms he leapt upon. Aminita muscaria, a stinky toadstool - his father was the one to teach him of its poisonous nature. Just like his own mind, it was not a haven or shelter.

 

 

His memory couldn’t conjure what would have once been an expectation. To take the leaps of faith required to jump onto floating pedestals surrounded by air. Instead, they left him wobbly in the knees, curls bouncing from momentum cut short. He had _forgotten_.

* * *

 

 

Willis was not a bad child – he was spirited, endlessly curious about the world around him that didn’t revolve the encroaching emotions of others. Like gravity.

 

Tables and chairs were cliffs that Willis could fly from with abandon, trusting that even if he fell he would be okay. His father watched him with careful eyes, even when he was turned away, Willis knew if he were ever to hurt, those sombre arms would lift him up and any misery he held would be swept by the ever-present calm his father projected;

“Now now Willis, what have I told you about jumping off tables? You’re too reckless my boy, you could expire from this curiosity of yours.”

“Father, the butterflies said we must fly together!”

 

 

His voice carried high with the sweetness of childhood innocence, and even in his stoicism his father’s countenance softened, and Willis felt the same in return. His empathy always struck both ways. Lord Hobbs couldn’t help lightly touching the crown of Willis’s head, before setting him down without punishment. Time will strip away Willis’s youthful curiosity, but he will not be the cause of it yet.

* * *

 

 

He moves back, each step he takes he senses the shadowy movements of the stag, never too far behind him. Willis knows he watches, as he always has, and he suspects, always will.

 

To care when he rushes forward and throws himself into the air would be to falter and much alike he was when he was a babe, he had _butterflies_ on his side. His bravery, it was fragile, just like the gentle flutters of the blue wings that seemed to manifest from within. It was only their second appearance since his return but now they felt familiar once more as they skirted along the coattails as it billows outwards, as if urging him to fly as well. So, he does, trusting he won’t fall. Once his feet became firmly planted on a singular domino, he continued onwards, the only viable option in this land, each time bringing less of the fluttering sensations.

* * *

 

 

Onwards, until he recognises the purple substance that pours down from the oversized bottle. Or was he undersized? Having managed to navigate the twists and leaps before the new attraction, it mattered little, because the stag appeared fully beside him, confirming his assumption of what was expected. Thus, he ignores the stag blithely before taking a drink as the bottle demanded elegantly with its tag.

 

The sensation of shrinking, so many things that were shrouded in memories he had forcibly tried to place away in a locked box but couldn’t remove the muscle memory of what his body remembered for him.

_“My God! Shall I disappear and never be found again?”_

_“Almost. The upside is that you will see things that were hidden before.”_

 

Keyholes like rabbit holes, were now Willis’s to navigate as he went through the tunnels and became large again, stretching back and forth like an accordion. Unfortunate when he was more attuned to string instruments, he muses it to himself as he slides down a slide, kicking snail shells that cover his path downwards. Maybe he was becoming comfortable in this nonsensicality, the whirls and spins expected were easier to manage when he just allowed it to simply be.

* * *

 

 

_“Blades are much more intimate. If I must die, hold a knife to my throat.”_

Willis senses the blade in his hand before he even sees the hilt enmeshed in the ground between the now skeletal ribcage of a beast. It was the most familiar of these moments since his return, his hand instinctually feeling down the sharp edges before slashing downwards in a test, even as he expresses a vocal reluctance to wield it;

“I didn’t come here to fight.”

_I didn’t want to come here at all._

“A shame, because a fight is waiting for you dear Willis.”

All too soon it seemed, he sees masses of black upon the ground before it congeals together to form lumps. Only dolls masks, a feature to resemble anything Willis could recognise. Willis acts immediately, his hand already prising the blade ready to attack the tar-like being. If he were to see himself, he would notice the smile that seemed to take over his face, eyes now lit with something distinctly familiar as it the same fierce delight the stag had on his own as he witnessed it. He slices upwards, cutting along the monster’s torso before he twists into a spin and drops the knife down into the goo-like head. Moving swiftly between the targets in flashes of blue. Their destruction puddles down, sliding down his skin and clothes but not sticking, he wouldn’t have cared, nay, there might have even been fatalistic joy beating inside him if it had.

He wasn’t tired when it had all ended for the moment. In fact, beneath his skin, he was feeling a vague sensation akin to the buzzing of bees, but it was not fuelled by fear any longer. He had simply felt alive once more, so all he could do was laugh, the first time he had felt relief in such a long while. Before it turned to a different sort of fear. It was far too easy to lose yourself here and Wonderland has already begun to seep in once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a friend call Will, Willis to another Hannibal fan in reality.   
> How could I not honour that embarrassment and continue this story?


End file.
